John’s voice faded, as if he had taken the phone away from his face. Thomas couldn’t quite hear him. It sounded like he was giving instructions to someone else in the car, but no second voice answered. Then, suddenly, he was back. “You know what I want for Christmas this year? Old times.”
“Old times?”
“You heard me.” John was talking softly now. “I want, fucking, old times.”
Maybe John was drinking. On the road, and drinking. Thomas saw that Sarah was coming back from the food-mart, holding two cups of coffee. He got out of the truck, pointed to the phone, signaled that she should get back in.
“You still there, Pops?” John said. “Still there?”
“I heard you,” Thomas said. He was walking, now, away from the truck, and away from Zachary. The traffic on the road, suddenly busy, made a wet noise that kept him from hearing John clearly. “Old times.”
“That,” John said, “and I want to see that doctor you’ve got above the garage.”
Thomas stopped. He was fifty feet from the road. He looked, saw his truck, and the trailer, but couldn’t see Sarah in the cab.
John’s voice was picking up strength. “Right? Maybe spend the night over there. See if she can tell me why this, shit keeps happening to me.”
Thomas drew a deep breath, and felt the cold on the back of his throat. He shifted the phone from one hand to the other. “I don’t think so, John,” he said, and shoved his cold hand into his jacket pocket. “I don’t think so.”
“And why not?” John said. The radio in his car was suddenly silent. “Isn’t she perfect for me? Isn’t that what you want?”
“No,” Thomas said. “No, John, she’s not.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m single and available, and I’ll be there soon. I want answers. This is fresh stuff I’m talking about here. Heartache. I think we all want answers.”
“You’ve got—” Thomas began, but stopped. His jacket felt tight. He had nothing to say.
“Well, look at that,” John said. “That doesn’t sound like a nod from here.”
Thomas felt a pressure in his ears, a dull pain that began at his jaw and clustered at his temple. He pulled the phone away from his head. John was still talking. For what felt like years Thomas had endured nights of badgering like this, had waded into an endless abyss of silent listening. He’d cajoled and placated John; dodged his accusations, done what he could to mitigate the self-pity and anger as John went up and down, even though it was never clear to Thomas where he’d slipped up as a parent and a friend, where he’d fallen short. He’d come to terms with feeling responsible for things not working out the way they were supposed to. For John not working out the way he was supposed to. He absorbed everything John said like a distant dark star so it wouldn’t radiate any farther than it already did. Beyond that, he didn’t know what to do. But there must be a limit to all of this. He swallowed a shoot of saliva, and brought the phone back to his ear.
“Give me one reason she isn’t,” John said. “I can wait.” There was no mistaking his tone, this time. It was a threat. The texture of John’s voice on the phone sounded different to Thomas—it had become thicker, angrier. Thomas could feel desperation rising in his body. They had been approaching this moment for a long time now, and it had finally arrived. It was clear: this kid—their son—he would take everything if they let him. And he would keep taking. The desperation was turning to panic. Perhaps he and Joan were to blame for all of this, perhaps that was true. Perhaps they could have tried harder to help their son. Perhaps they had tried too hard. But that would have to wait. For now, the connection with John needed to be cut. Thomas looked up the road, back from where they’d come. At the end of it was their home. At the end of it there was a language John would understand. “Because, John,” he said, and took a breath. “Because she’s mine.”
There was a deep silence on John’s end. To Thomas it sounded like both a gathering and a negation of thought; the moment after the instruments tune and resolve in communal quiet. “John,” Thomas said. “Listen to me. Don’t bring your problems home this time.”
“I knew it,” John said. He was whispering now. “I knew it. You want her so bad. You old, bearded goat, and I got you to say it.” A pause. Then, suddenly cheerful, he said, “Secret’s safe, Pops. She’s all yours. You know me.” Then the line went dead.
Thomas held the phone to his ear for a full minute before gently closing and placing it back in his pocket. He walked back to his truck, set the gas nozzle in the tank, and hooked the handle. What he wanted, now, was quiet forever. He felt gone from himself, deep in some ocean. Years of tending, and without warning, he’d slipped. What he’d said could not be taken back. What John thought he knew would not be forgotten. It didn’t matter if it was true or not.
Zachary was quiet, staring at the traffic through the slats in the trailer. The snow clouds stretched in pregnant monochrome across the sky. Sarah was waiting with the coffee in the cab of the truck. Thomas got in. When Sarah had stitched the gash in his forehead, she’d told him to hold still, and swung one of her legs between his, as if to hold him, sitting, in place. She had fixed him to his chair. He’d wanted to take one of her breasts, not inches from his upturned chin, in his mouth. He’d never wanted to leave.
He turned the key halfway in the ignition, and the radio came to life. Blood on the road. He took his hands from the wheel, leaned back deep into the headrest, and closed his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah said. “Hey, what is it? Is John okay?”
Thomas opened his eyes. The windshield was dirty with road-salt and snow. Everything outside of the truck looked cold. Sarah was looking at him, holding their coffee cups. “What is it?” she said again, more softly this time.
“Please,” he said. He had meant to ask her a question, but found he couldn’t.
“Please what?” she said.
“Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.” They sat for a minute without saying anything more. And then he reached for her. He felt as if he were moving slowly, but knew that wasn’t the case. His jacket caught briefly on the armrest, and the center console pushed uncomfortably against his ribs. He felt his hand and fingers behind her neck, under her hair, as he pulled her toward him. He’d meant to bring them face-to-face, to kiss her he thought, that was, he knew, what he wanted, but then he saw her expression—disbelief, terror; a child, she looked like a child—and he brought her head to his chest instead.
He had no idea how long they stayed like that. He was aware only that after a time she was gently pulling away from him, and he was keeping her there. “Thomas,” she said into his jacket, and he reached to put his other arm around her. “Thomas,” she said again, harshly this time. Then, suddenly, she wrenched free.
He felt a pain spread out along his thigh, one that bloomed just above his kneecap, and radiated up his leg. He looked down. The coffee from the cup she’d been holding had spilled in his lap, a dark, pulsing stain. He looked back to Sarah; she had pressed herself against the passenger door, as far away from him as she could get. The left side of her face was reddened, had chafed against his jacket; the right side drained of blood. A few strands of her hair were in her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She was looking at his lap. “Sorry.”
His leg was throbbing. His vision had cleared. “Don’t be,” he said back.
The wood was stacked behind their house, near the now empty chicken coop, and with nothing else to do inside—wanting, in fact, to get out of the house—Joan had put on her coat and boots, grabbed the canvas log holder they kept by the kitchen door, and braced herself against the weather. Their entire property appeared still under the new blanket. The flakes falling from the sky were large; she could hear the sound of them as they hit and stuck. She walked halfway to the woodpile and stopped to enjoy it.
Her plan was to move the wood out of the weather and fill the log basin by their fireplace, so it would be dry enough to catch and no one would have
to trudge out later for more. After that, she’d set some aside in the garage for Sarah.
The first bundle she overloaded, and couldn’t pick up. As she pulled some of the bigger pieces from the pile, she felt a presence, and started. When she turned, she saw the herd of alpacas, standing near the fence, watching her. They were covered in snow; they looked both mournful and resilient. She’d bought them on a whim two years ago, with some idea toward selling their fur. She regretted it now. She regretted everything now. When they’d bought this place thirty years ago, she’d been sure they’d eventually outgrow it; it was a small house. But now, with the light coming out of the kitchen window, burning soft and warmly through the falling snow, it felt, if anything, too large. They were turning into hermits, she and Thomas; their house a monument to failure and quiet and shame. They barely talked. It was a house full of empty rooms and hallways, cheerful family pictures taken by strangers.
It was three o’clock. Both John and Thomas were now overdue. Inside, the table was set. The ham she’d picked out, the ham she deliberated over in the grocery store for far longer than necessary, as if there were some secret to be found in the weight of the thing, was defrosting. Jocey—whoever this girl was—would be a hedge against John’s heavy pull. They would simply ask her questions, and then the night would be over.
On her way back into the kitchen with the wood, she miscalculated the width of the entryway, and with all the weight of the load caught her fingers on the doorframe. Her vision went white; the firewood fell like clattering bowling pins to the kitchen floor. “Goddamn it,” she said. She put her hands between her legs and squeezed. A few of the logs had rolled outside and were now propping the kitchen door open. She kicked those out of the way, closed the door, and, still in her jacket, went to the sink.
The water took some of the pain away. She turned the faucet off, and braced herself on the counter. No one prepares you for this, she thought. There’s always some way to mess up. And it was then that she looked out the window and saw an unfamiliar car, a blue sedan, in their driveway. It sat at the far end, almost fifty yards away, where the driveway connected with the street. It was idling; Joan could see exhaust puffing into the cold like tiny distress signals. Someone, maybe, waiting for Sarah. Though why make her walk through the weather? Using her left hand she gathered the wood from the floor and put it back in the carrier, and then brought it into the living room. The rest of the wood-getting would have to wait. She tried calling Thomas, but he didn’t pick up. When she went back to the window, the car was gone.
In the living room now, she built a fire and lit it. Her fingers ached only dully. As the kindling took, she flipped on the television, hoping for news of the weather. They were broadcasting clips of people in the snow: kids rolling down a hill; a huge truck with a makeshift plow hitched to its front; abandoned vehicles wedged into snowbanks like icebound ships. These were scenes from the highway, but a few hours east, where the storm had settled down in earnest. The newscast cut to a man in a snowsuit pointing out cars that were sliding sideways through intersections in a small town that looked like every other small town. The vehicles turned and slid so slowly that Joan wanted to say, What’s the problem here? Just get out of the truck and stop it with your hands. She clicked it off.
When she went to the window again, she was surprised to see the blue car had returned.
The pit was nothing but a large meadow off the highway. It was hidden by a ridge of evergreens, accessible only by a small paved road that after a few sharp inclines turned to dirt. It was no one’s property. Thomas had been here once before, and had been told by a neighbor who kept cows that it was an unofficial dumping ground, a small, farm-animal graveyard. The road was unplowed but still drivable. As Thomas pulled to a stop, there was a sound from the rig as if Zachary were pitching himself from one side of the trailer to the other.
He was alone. Sarah had stayed at the gas station. Before Thomas had pulled away, she’d walked inside the food-mart and returned with napkins. She handed them to Thomas through the window of the truck. “That could be really bad,” she’d said.
“I’m fine,” he’d replied. He took the napkins, and laid them carefully on his leg. The cold air from the window helped. Then he apologized. She nodded, as if she wasn’t quite listening.
“Let me at least give you a ride home,” he’d said. He wanted to explain himself if he could. A huge mistake. All of it. “How are you going to get back?” The snow was coming thickly and had already covered the wipers.
“I’m going to call someone,” she’d said.
She disappeared again through the doors of the food-mart, and Thomas drove away. A mile down the road, he pulled into the parking lot of a Rite-Aid and sat there for what could’ve been fifteen minutes or an hour. He had no idea.
Now, at the pit, Thomas opened his door and eased himself out of the truck. The meadow in front of him looked like a wide lake, frozen over. He limped around to the back of the trailer. He didn’t want to do this now. Zachary stood with his back to Thomas, near the wheel-well, leaning against the wall. Thomas bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, pressed it against his leg, and held it there. With his other hand, he reached into his jacket pocket for his phone.
“I’ve been calling you,” Joan said. “What happened?”
“I know,” Thomas said. “I’m sorry. I’m here. With Zachary.”
“Is Sarah with you?”
The snow in Thomas’s hand began to melt down his leg. “No,” he said. “No, she’s not.”
“There’s a car here, waiting for her. In the driveway.”
Thomas switched the phone to his other hand. “Joan,” he said. “Joan, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“It’s not John. Whoever it is keeps coming and going,” Joan said. “It’s here now. The car. Just sitting at the end of the driveway. It’s been coming and going for the last hour.”
“What color is it? Red?”
“Blue.”
Thomas could hear his wife moving around their house. He imagined her at the living room window, peering out. The sun was beginning to go down.
“I tried calling Sarah,” Joan said. “She didn’t pick up.”
“She’s at a gas station,” Thomas said. “Down the road.”
“Why? I don’t—”
“Joan,” Thomas said. “It’s probably John. I talked to him a little while ago. He’s driving someone else’s car.”
He heard the oven timer go off. She must be in the kitchen. “If it’s John, why isn’t he coming in?”
“I don’t know, Joan. I don’t know.”
Zachary, in the trailer, began scratching at the floor. Then he hutched up and put his head down. “Joan,” Thomas said. “I talked to him. I think he’s worse.”
“Worse,” she said. “What do you mean?”
“Joan, I made a mistake. I think you should lock the doors.”
“I’m not going to lock the doors on my own—”
“Joan,” Thomas said. “Trust me. Lock him out. He’s old enough. It’s what you want, I know that. It’s what I want. Don’t let him in the house.”
“It’s not—you’re not making sense, Thomas. You have to tell me what’s going on.”
“Joan,” he said. “You know it’s him. It couldn’t be anyone else. Jocey isn’t with him.”
There was silence on the line. All this talking, Thomas thought, punctuated by silences large enough to drown in. “I’m on my way home,” he said. “I’ll be home soon.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and cut the call.
The day was almost over. Thomas unlatched the trailer, reached for Zachary’s lead, and drew him up. He walked with him until they were in the middle of the meadow, then let go of the lead. He put his hand on the animal’s back. Zachary watched the trees, fifty yards away. They stood like that for a while, then Thomas turned and limped back to his truck for the shotgun. He told himself that if Zachary had wandered away by the time he got to the door of his truck, if h
e’d made any attempt to move at all, he wasn’t going to shoot him. That, he thought, is the kind of person I want to be.
He opened the passenger door, leaned in, pulled the gun off its rack, and turned. Zachary hadn’t budged. Thomas shut the door, and walked toward the feeble, ancient-looking animal, breaking the gun as loudly as he could. A bird of some kind took flight behind him. Thomas took two shells from his breast pocket and thumbed them home. He moved until he was ten feet from Zachary, and stopped. He felt like he wanted to scream. His pant leg was frozen and stiff, and there was an absence of feeling in his leg. The snow fell like static. They would, all three of them, talk this out. They would get past this. Thomas looked once directly into Zachary’s eyes, nestled the butt of the shotgun on his shoulder, and raised the barrel. The alpaca stood there, waiting to be shot.
camp winnesaka
The thing is, we were worried about enrollment. We were already way down for the summer, thanks to video games and league sports. Who knows what else. Overconcerned parents, maybe, worried about their kid falling behind the little engineers in India and China, etc., which I’m not discounting, you do have to think of the future. But that’s the climate we were facing, so in terms of what some of you are calling the Debacle …
There are things I’m sorry about. Things that probably could’ve been handled better. But everyone makes mistakes. That’s the first thing we tell our campers when they arrive in the Condor Transports: mistakes happen, but you have to keep the big picture in mind. You have to remain optimistic in your decision making. You have to value intent. And if intentions are on the up and up?
It started with Moosey, the moose head that’s hung over the mantel in the Chow Hut for Lord knows how long, and who has, over the years, become our unofficial mascot. Spirits were low with this batch of campers, I don’t know why. We just had a higher number of pasty, sort of obese kids sign up this summer for some reason. They got a kick out of Moosey, but it was hard to get them excited about much else. Any other year, maybe it wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but this year, with the enrollment issue, it was different. There are four other camps around Lake Oboe, and parents visit during the summer. If they like what they see, chances are they’ll sign their kids up for another session, which takes a load off our back in terms of marketing. But everywhere the parents—we call them Pen Pals—looked this year, it was sullen city. The kids weren’t taking care of their Teepees. The Spirit Catchers they made in arts and crafts looked like they’d been weaved by retards. We staged a Capture the Coonskin game, and it was like watching apathy battle indecision. A PR disaster, essentially.
The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories Page 7